A Young British Soldier
by Pompey
Summary: Set post-Hiatus. Watson, with Holmes's help, confronts some issues left by war. Technically a sequel to "On Afghanistan's Plains" but you don't have to read it to get this story. A few OCs get some screentime. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

A YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER

July 27, 1895

The new chemical experiment I bent over could completely overthrow my old test for blood stains that I had come up with back in '81. Unfortunately, it was anxious work and had created a precipitation that smelled rather strongly of sulfur and talcum. Watson, long-suffering fellow, had put up an immediate protest once it reached that point. My counter was that the good of humanity outweighed any temporary inconvenience. We compromised by opening nearly all the sitting room windows. It was nearly eleven and the night air was refreshingly cool after the heat of the day. To our chagrin, however, there was little breeze and the odiferous chemicals remained stubbornly in the sitting room.

I knew Watson had opted to immerse himself in a book for the evening but it wasn't until I reached a pause in the experiment that I was able to really observe him. Even after so many years, I retained a small pleasure in trying to deduce his trains of thought. I added the final agents – an equal part of oxen blood from a nearby butcher and charcoal – and allowed the solution time to react while I watched Watson at my leisure.

The book he had chosen was not a novel, as I had previously supposed. Rather, it was a well-thumbed copy of Rudyard Kipling's _Barrack-Room Ballads_, which had come into his possession after the incident at Reichenbach but before my return to London last year. He had already progressed past the halfway point.

It was then that he looked up from the pages and seemed to stare at the picture of General Gordon without actually seeing it. His face darkened and became pensive, almost troubled. Most telling, he leaned back in his chair and his right hand automatically went to his left shoulder, the one that had been wounded during his army years.

Even a Scotland Yarder could have deduced his thoughts by now. Before I could comment, however, my experiment gave a sudden popping noise. I turned to see my beaker had cracked and the liquid within was rapidly flowing across my work table in a red river.

I had heard Watson jump at the sound, as had I, and while I tried to contain the damage I heard him mutter a gruff, "good night" at my back before heading for his bedroom.

Somewhat put out, I finished cleaning the mess and straightening my work area. The rags were so beyond saving afterwards that I flung them into the grate to be burned later. I recorded what exactly I had done to achieve the disaster so as to avoid repeating the same mistake. Then, finally, I applied myself to understanding Watson's uncharacteristic behavior.

It was painfully obvious what had occupied Watson's thoughts just prior to his unceremonious departure. The choice of literature, the general's picture, the old wound, his troubled features . . . war was on his mind, but why?

I thought back to our first discussion, such as it was, about Watson's service in Afghanistan. The account had been published, much abridged and heavily re-ordered by Dr. Doyle, in _A Study in Scarlet_ but the actual events had been much more telling:

_I knew that Watson would never believe the truth – that I had _not_ been told about his time in Afghanistan – without some show of proof. Besides, it was a chance to __show Watson just how much a man _could_ know, if he only exercised his own powers of deduction. "Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardships and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Also, he limps, favoring the right leg. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and been wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan."_

_"But based on that criteria alone, I could just as easily have served in the Zulu War," Watson contradicted._

_I__ was pleasantly taken aback. In a matter of minutes, Watson had gone from skeptic__al__disbeliever __to understanding the __difficulties__ of deductive reasoning. "It is true that an army doctor could have seen much hardship and been wounded in Africa," __I__ acknowledged, "but I knew you had not been in the Zulu War. __The last major battle__ was in the middle of 1879. If you had been wounded there, you would have been discharged far sooner than you were. And I knew you were only recently discharged. The most recent battles in Afghanistan – Maiwand and Kandahar -- were in late summer last year. Taking them into account, and the duration of serious __illness,__ I'd wager you were discharged as soon as it was safe for you to travel. Then too, your clothes were __barely __but a __few__ months old, and your face even now retains the touch of tropical sun. No, you were never in Africa, Doctor." _

_"Well, you are quite right," admitted Watson, "except that I was not in the Battle of Kandahar."_

_"Maiwand, then."_

_Watson hesitated. "Yes," he said, quietly, and sudden mask of reticence fell over his features. Belated, I cursed himself for an insensitive lout. Of course the memories of war would be painful, and still fresh. In an effort to lift that shadow from my flat mate's face, I turned Watson's attention to the little message Inspector Lestrade had sent me concerning the Lauriston Gardens mystery. Obeying a sudden whim, I asked Watson to come along. _

Maiwand. Watson had been remembering Maiwand tonight. And this wasn't the first time I had deduced Watson's thoughts about the war. Just before entering the mystery that Watson would deem "The Adventure of the Cardboard Box," I had observed his reaction to war, the preposterousness of the very idea. Watson had found a little deprecating humor in it then. That had been in August of '86 . . . the memories must come upon him suddenly now and then.

Deny it though I would, I had rather enjoyed reading the Lauriston Garden affair through Watson's point of view. And I had taken special note of the autobiographical pieces of information Watson threw out, especially the ones that happened before their fateful introduction at St. Bart's. I knew, in an abstract way, the difficulties of an army surgeon's life during combat but I had never looked into the particulars.

I crossed to the room to my bookshelf and took down the almanac. There was embarassingly little I knew about that Afghan war, even after living for over a decade with a veteran of it. The Battle of Kandahar had been fought the first of September of '80, which explained why, when Watson had contemplated war back in '86, it had not bothered him as much, since he had not participated in that particular fight. The Battle of Maiwand had been fought on July 27, 1880. I closed the almanac absently, my mind racing. Small wonder Maiwand was on Watson's mind. I snorted at my own slowness.

Exactly fifteen years ago tonight and half a world away, Watson had nearly died, his life bleeding out on foreign sands while enemy fire rang out around him. If not for Murray, Watson might have suffered the same fate as those comrades he had seen "hacked to pieces." The last must have been particularly galling: he, a doctor, sworn to heal, had been unable to help them. And of those poor wretches, how many of them had been unable to stand the psychological rigors and horrors of battle? Even the survivors must have struggled in a world seemed to have gone mad.

But what memories were haunting Watson so, and why now after fifteen years?

I returned to his chair and gathered up Kipling's poetry from the floor, where my friend had all but flung it. I didn't know at exactly what point Watson had abandoned it but I knew approximately how many pages into it he had gotten. I skimmed through the verses until a few stanzas caught my attention. I reread them and, as I put the pieces together, the breath caught in my throat. Dear God, of all the things Watson could have read tonight, this was the very worst. I went sick with the horror of it.

The clock solemnly chimed out the hour: two-thirty. Watson was undoubtedly asleep by now and I was not about to disturb him. I had decided to go to bed myself when I heard footsteps from the stairs leading to Watson's bedroom. Then the man himself appeared, dressing gown thrown over his clothes, and looking thoroughly done in.


	2. Chapter 2

Watson had not expected me to still be up, that much was clear. Surprise and guilt mingled on his face. "Holmes! Did I wake you?" His tone was apologetic, tentative.

"No, I have not yet turned in," I answered. Meanwhile, I observed him as quickly and subtly as I could. Clearly I had erred in my supposition that he had fallen asleep. The past three and a half hours had been far from restful for my Boswell. He had not bothered to undress and already dark circles were forming beneath his eyes. Moreover, he had been pacing nervously in his room for some time. Only strain or damp weather aggravated his slight limp, which was more pronounced now than it had been earlier today – yesterday, rather. That he suspected he had awakened me only confirmed my deduction; his bedroom lay directly above mine and any pacing of his would be clearly audible.

Then there was the matter of his reaction upon seeing me. His surprise I understood. The guilt was puzzling. It may have been brought on by assuming he had woken me, or . . .

I caught Watson's surreptitious glance towards the sideboard near the fireplace, the one with the decanter of brandy. Ah. He had finally ventured downstairs for a badly-needed drink but found some shame in doing so. Knowing his dislike for chemical stimulants and depressants, this seemed the likeliest cause.

Nevertheless, I moved to the sideboard and poured us each a measure. Brandy would steady his nerve and decrease his reluctance to speak. It would also serve as a mild sedative. Watson accepted the offered glass but made no move to relax. Even when I arranged myself in my chair he remained on his feet. Oddly, he seemed distracted and as the minutes ticked by, he grew tense as if for flight.

"I have been remiss," I said quietly, breaking the silence.

Startled, Watson at last focused his attention, on me. "In what way?"

_In being a considerate friend,_ I ought to have replied. "The experiment from tonight was a fantastic failure. I ought to have realized that . . .

_ today__ was the__ anniversar__y of Maiwand_

". . . I was using incompatible agents and spared us both the discomfort."

I saw a strange look sweep over Watson's face before he sipped again at the brandy. It took me a moment for me to interpret it. He thought that I thought his abrupt departure hours ago was because of my experiment and its resulting odoriferous fumes. He was both relieved that I, apparently, had misinterpreted his behavior but discomforted that I should blame myself.

"Do not trouble yourself over it, Holmes. Even you are bound to miscalculate now and then."

So, he was content to go along with my "incorrect" theory. Happily, he had also left me a path to transition to the true reason behind why he had fled. I smiled dryly. "Indeed. I suppose I am only human and thus subject to 'the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.' As are you."

My shot hit home far too well. Watson paled slightly and his posture stiffened. "And what, pray, do you mean by that?"

The tightness of his tone warned me to utilize all the tact I was capable of. Slowly I rose and crossed to his chair. I retrieved the volume so rudely thrust aside. Watson did not step back as I approached but he looked at me as if the book were a Martini rifle aimed at his heart. Changing tactics, I returned to my chair and dropped the poems on the rug. "It was not my experiment that drove you from the room. It was memories of war."

Watson, irritating fellow, immediately perceived the direction in which the conversation was headed and strove to cut me off. "Assuming you are correct, that I left the room because of unpleasant memories about the war, would it not be reasonable to say that had I wished you to pry into such matters I would have stayed where I was?"

"It would," I admitted reluctantly.

"Indeed." He turned away, draining his glass and brushing past me to leave it on the sideboard. I knew my Boswell's stubbornness; if the man wanted to avoid a course of action, it would take something of cataclysmic force to persuade him. I knew of only one thing that would arrest his attention immediately. Softly, I quoted the fateful Kipling passage:

"When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains/ and the women come out to cut up what remains/ then roll to your rifle and blow out your brains/ and go to your God like a soldier."

Watson had stopped before the grate and gone rigid at the first line. By the times I had finished, he was gasping shallowly, barely breathing at all.

"Watson?"

The empty brandy glass dropped from his hand, cracking when it hit the floor. Cursing myself for an insensitive idiot, I sprang up and strode to Watson's side. He showed no sign of having heard me. Nor did he react when I touched his shoulder and shook it lightly. He was staring into the fireplace, eyes strangely blank and unblinking.

I could not get him to respond at all.

_So, short chapter and a nasty cliffhanger to boot. __Yup. The author is evil_


	3. Chapter 3

Now truly frightened, I dragged him to the couch and forced him to sit, pushing his head towards his knees. Watson obeyed, unresisting. I fought down the urge to shake him out of _whatever _it was that had come over him. Instead, I knelt in front of the couch, gripped his hands in mine, and waited. Not long into it, Watson started trembling. I tightened my grip and continued to wait for what felt like an eternity. At last Watson gasped like a man saved from drowning, and brought his head up with a jerk. He looked straight at me but it was another moment before I saw recognition in his eyes. The trembling, I noted, had not ceased.

"I owe you a thousand apologies and more, Watson," I said, voice unsteady. "It was cruel of me to have done that and doubly so to a friend."

Then Watson looked away, color suffusing his own face. "It's quite all right, Holmes," he muttered and tried to draw his hands back.

I resisted. "It is not all right, Watson! I know about Maiwand," I added gently.

Watson ceased his fight and stared at me, perfectly still but with apprehension on his features.

He looked ready to bolt, despite my grip. It was dangerous territory I was venturing into. The painful, frightening memories were still vivid and his pride had been wounded by this show of "weakness" in my presence. Any help I could give had to be offered carefully.

The first thing I could do was to show that I trusted him to remain on the couch, and not to flee the sitting room yet again. Deliberately I released him and turned to fill my pipe, speaking all the while. "The Battle of Maiwand was fought July 27, 1880, fifteen years ago. It was a violent skirmish in which the British troops were quite over their heads and had to retreat ignobly." I struck a match and lit my pipe. "But I need not tell you that," I said, turning back to him.

I was relieved beyond measure to see the wry half-smile on his face when he murmured, "No, you need not."

"Yet if I, a civilian, am able to see the horror and waste of such a battle from only a dry and technical almanac description, I can only imagine how greatly affecting it must have been for you, an eyewitness. There is no shame in it."

His gaze dropped from me and seemed to find something of great interest near the fireplace. Still he remained silent, offering me no clue as to how to proceed. His unusual reticence was discomforting in an already unnerving situation. Clumsily, I sought to satisfy my curiosity about a trivial matter. "Was it the date that inspired you to pick up Kipling, or did reading Kipling remind you of the date?"

There was a long, painful silence before Watson finally looked back at me. "I was aware of the date, I suppose, when I chose the book, but I was much more reminded when . . . when I read . . ."

"That particular passage I so heartlessly quoted," I finished. He nodded, but something in what he had said struck a dischord. "You were not truly conscious of today's – or yesterday's, rather – date, and yet you chose a book very much pertaining to the army? What prompted it, if not the anniversary?"

He looked back towards the fireplace, still not speaking, and my patience broke under the weight of my concern. I dragged my chair closer to the couch, sitting directly in front of him. "Watson, what happened to you?"

Again he flushed but as I was now sitting directly between him and the fireplace, he could not seek visual distraction from that venue. But he still chose not to look at me directly. "Do you mean in Afghanistan, this evening or a few minutes ago?" he muttered. The tone was flat, indicating getting information out of him would be about as easy as pulling teeth.

"All three, I daresay, as the events are linked," I retorted, telling him with my own tone that I would not be easily swayed. "However, I leave the chronology of the explanation to you."

Watson sighed and closed his eyes. At last he opened them, looked at me, and asked, "Are you familiar with the phenomenon of scents or odors triggering memories?"

"Yes." In truth, the answer was "not particularly," but I thought it best to humor him.

"This evening – " Once again he looked away and I found myself leaning forward, so low was his voice "—my thoughts were turned to Maiwand, moreso than they had been in years, but I could not for the life of me understand why. It was more than just the date. When I came downstairs again, just a little while ago, I realized why." He paused. "Every country, even provinces and cities, have their own unique odors. London smells nothing like Lyons, for example."

Normally such ramblings grate on my nerves. This was no exception but I suppressed my annoyance. Watson was speaking voluntarily; that was enough. He would make his point in due time. My patience was rewarded with his next sentence.

"Afghanistan . . . Afghanistan smelt of sulfur . . . and heat . . . and talc. And the battles . . . of black powder. And blood."

Watson met my eyes directly. "The way this room smells."

I gaped at him, aghast, recognizing immediately the elements he named. "My experiment!"

"I hadn't realized it before," he continued, "since the odors built up gradually this evening. But when I returned a few minutes ago, it hit me with full force. It was – _is_ – especially strong around the fireplace."

"Where I threw the rags after cleaning the mess the experiment made. Where you stood when I quoted Kipling." I groaned. "Watson, I am so sorry."

"Holmes, how on earth were you to know when I myself didn't know?" He sounded irritable but I did not take it to heart. Sleep deprivation, residual fear, and embarrassment were most likely to blame.

"So the odor triggered unconscious memories that were compounded by your choice of reading material and the day's date," said I, thinking aloud. "Then when the beaker cracked . . ." I stopped and suppressed another groan. "It sounded like gunfire."

Watson nodded, still embarrassed.

"Which led you to make a hasty departure from the sitting room. But when you returned, Watson?"

"You mean, after you quoted Kipling?"

"Yes."

Neither of us spoke for what seemed an age but in reality I'm sure was no more than a minute or two. Watson kept his eyes firmly on the floor; I stared at the pipe in my hands as it died and went cold. Finally I whispered, "You seemed to be in a trance. I couldn't wake you. I thought . . ."

"Hypnagogic regression," he interrupted quietly.

"What?"

Watson sighed and looked up. "Hypnagogic regression," he repeated, louder. "It's . . . an intense reliving of an emotionally-laden memory or group of related memories. Clinically speaking."

There was much he left unsaid but I was unwilling to press him too far. At any rate, I wasn't sure I was ready to hear what answers he had to give. "How bad?" I asked, as gently as I could.

"Bad enough."

Then, with the air of a man facing the gallows, Watson continued. "At Netley, there was talk of battle fatigue, of how some men cannot return to life during peace. Some have even been known to go mad from it. At the time, it was an interesting observation, but hardly worth looking into further. Or taking seriously." He gave a twisted smile, contempt for his younger self apparent.

"These . . . episodes . . . are rare for me," he added, though I could not tell if he was trying to reassure me or himself. Perhaps the both of us. "Even when I returned to England in late 1880, they were infrequent."

"When was the last one?"

He paused, calculating. "More than ten years ago, I should think."

I found myself torn. Ten years was a significant amount of time. Nevertheless, I found this revelation upsetting. Five years after the battle, Watson still had not fully recovered psychologically. Worse, I hadn't even noticed. "I'm so sorry, Watson," I said again.

He waved away my apology and I saw him suppress a yawn. "It's all right, Holmes. You have nothing to blame yourself for."

I wanted to but could not tell him that he was quite wrong. I am a detective; my very livelihood depends upon my powers of observation, upon my knowledge of people and events, and upon my abilities to forge connections that others miss. I had failed to do so with my dearest friend and he had suffered because of it. No, I was very much to blame but I could not voice my culpability. Instead, I rose abruptly from my chair, dropped by pipe and shoved the windows as open as they would go. Then I gathered the offending rags into the empty coal bucket. It was very much a case of locking the stall after the horse had been stolen but it was all I could do.

"Holmes, that's hardly necessary now," Watson protested as I made my way into the hall with the bucket.

I turned to look at him. His face has often been an open window to his thoughts and now was no exception. Watson believed that I feared he would have another regression, interpreting my guilt as overprotection. If I continued with my original plan – to throw the rags into the alley – I would shame him to no end.

"You're quite all right?" I asked, striving for a light tone.

Watson's answer to the affirmative was serious and sincere.

Against all my desires to the contrary, I deliberately set the bucket down by the doorframe and walked away from it. "It's after three in the morning now. I suppose you are right and it can wait until dawn." I could not help but glance sideways at him as I spoke. I saw relief, and also a great weariness.

I had not lied about the lateness of the hour.

A light breeze blew through the windows and I hoped it would continue through what was left of the night, as I was fairly certain Watson would end up sleeping here rather than in his room. He had not told me what memory had just relived, what had happened if Afghanistan, but I knew now was not the time. Eventually, when he was ready, he would tell me. Surreptitiously a slipped a blanket within his reach. "I shall wish you a good night, then." My words were a statement but my look was an inquiry.

"Good night, Holmes." He could not fight down another yawn and I turned down the lamp before I entered my room.

I made certain to keep my door ajar.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Because of the open door, I went through the pretenses of going to bed for Watson's sake though I remained wakeful. There was much to read between the lines of what he had said.

_At Netley, there was talk of battle fatigue . . . it was an interesting observation, but hardly worth looking into further. Or taking seriously._

A young, green doctor just venturing into the military, convinced battle fatigue was a thing that happened to others. The arrogance of youth is a shield for many things but not war. Watson had been forced to acknowledge his vulnerability just when he was at his most vulnerable. No wonder he was overly-sensitive about the regressions. I wondered, idly, exactly when the previous occurrence had been, and how on earth it had slipped my notice.

_How bad? Bad enough._

That was an understatement if ever I heard one. If even half of what Kipling's poetry had implied were true, Maiwand had been horrific. Small wonder Watson was troubled by it even a decade and a half after the fact, or hesitant to speak of it.

Then, too, there was his reluctance to speak of any part of his service in Afghanistan at all. I had heard several anecdotes of when he was stationed in India, and amusing, adventurous tales they were too. Most had come out during our visit to Colonel Hayter's home in Surrey, though Doyle had chose not to include them in the case he titled "The Reigate Puzzle." I pondered on the significance of the timing. Watson's willingness to share his past might have been an attempt to lift my spirits after Lyons, or it may have been the empathetic company of one who had undergone the same experiences.

_Had I wished you to pry into such matters I would have stayed where I was_

Instead, he had left my presence so as to maintain a façade of composure. My Boswell still loathed admitting this chink in his armor, even to himself. Very well. I would respect Watson's wishes and follow his lead, wherever it led.

I surprised myself by actually falling asleep after reaching this conclusion. I awoke when the pink light of early dawn struck my face. It had only been a few hours of repose but got up anyway and entered the sitting room.

Watson, as I predicted, had slept on the couch; indeed, was still asleep despite the early morning noises of the city coming through the open windows. As quietly as I could I closed them. It was then that I, now buffered from extraneous sounds, was able to hear Watson's nearly silent murmurings.

I was already approaching the couch when he sat up with a gasp, fear and disorientation in his eyes. I crouched nearby. "It's all right, Watson. You were dreaming."

"No. Not dreaming. Remembering." His voice was still thick with sleep.

"Maiwand?"

He shook his head slowly. "The retreat."

God help me, I am the worst specimen of friend to walk the earth. A part of me wished he would leave it at that. Distance has always been my _modus operandi_. Distance, and cowardice. I have shunned intimacy of any sort. It invites too many unknown, unplottable variables. If Watson took me into his confidences, I would become a part of this, ensnarled in something frighteningly personal and unpredictable. I feared the change it would force upon me.

Another part of me, I blush to admit, was intensely curious about what he might say, what clues he might offer about his past that I had not already deduced. And one last, miserable little voice was desperate to offer my friend aid, no matter the cost. At last, I softly asked, "Can you speak of it?"

Watson closed his eyes and at first I thought he was about to fall asleep again. Then he spoke again, his voice low. "I do not actually remember many concrete details, only impressions, but . . . In its own way, the retreat was worse. In battle, a man can lose himself in the melee. He can forget for a little while the danger to his life in the heat of the fight. There was no way to forget during the retreat save through injury or illness. Heaven knows there was enough of both.

"So many were hurt or killed when we fled to Kandahar. I believe the retreat had a higher rate of casualties than the actual battle. We were desperately in need of water and terrified for our lives. If it was not the _Ghazis_ behind us, then it was the villagers flanking us."

"The villagers?" I could not help but ask.

Watson nodded, opening his eyes. "Oh, yes," he said, rather ruefully. "We were the 'foreign white devils,' Holmes. And we had been defeated utterly. It was a point of pride for some to say they had helped take back their country. And it lasted all through that wretched night."

He fell silent again and I hovered between remaining quiet and asking him to continue. He saved me the trouble by speaking again, in the same low tone he had begun with. "We were a caravan of dying men and animals. I suppose I was relatively lucky. I had lost so much blood from the shoulder wound I was but half-conscious at best." Watson paused and looked directly into my face. "I do not even recall when or how a bullet clipped my leg." Then he looked away. "What I do remember is the pain, the pain and fear. Those upon camels and horses were especially targeted. All I could do was stay astride and pray for us to reach safety quickly." He paused again. "That was the memory that possessed me last night," he whispered.

I found I had no words at all. My emotions were a churning ocean, impeding thought. I wished to God my friend had been spared this horror, or that I could be granted the right turn of phrase to ease his mind.

Instead, I rasped out, inadequately, "My dear Watson . . . I am so sorry."

For once, my face must have betrayed my feelings. He looked at me curiously at first, then smiled slightly. "It's all right, Holmes."

There was a quiet confidence in his voice. It was not only his acknowledgement of my sympathy but a reassurance that _he_ was all right, that the situation was all right. I rebelled at the thought of accepting such an utterly wrong situation, though it was clear Watson already had. Indeed, what other choice was there? The past could not be changed. Some ghosts did not rest quietly. Last night had proven that.

However, this morning showed there was a way to exorcise the demons in Watson's past, if only I could find the right tools to help him do so.

TBC

_I was going to just summarize what Watson told Holmes but Peekaboo42 wanted stories, so I obliged. (And Aragonite, don't worry. It'll come out __eventually_


	5. Chapter 5

There was a quiet confidence in his voice. It was not only his acknowledgement of my sympathy but a reassurance that _he_ was all right, that the situation was all right. I rebelled at the thought of accepting such an utterly wrong situation, though it was clear Watson already had. Indeed, what other choice was there? The past could not be changed. Some ghosts did not rest quietly. Last night had proven that.

However, this morning showed there was a way to exorcise the demons in Watson's past, if only I could find the right tools to help him do so. But what tools, and how to go about finding them? Utterly out of my element, I collapsed into my chair. "How can you bear it, Watson?"

He shrugged, understanding my meaning without asking for clarification. "What are my alternatives?" he asked mildly.

Madness. Drink. Narcotics. Suicide.

The unspoken words hung between us. For all I knew, Watson had teetered on the edge of such things before I met him. I feared hearing the truth – I, a detective, sworn to seek out the truth no matter the price. I wanted all to be right with him; as long as I did not know otherwise, I could pretend the calm exterior he presented was more than surface-deep.

Our friendship would never survive if it were but a false front. For the sake of the partnership, I had to put aside my own selfish desires. I looked at him, steeling my nerve to speak, when Watson flung off the blanket and moved to his chair so as to be closer to me.

"Holmes." He leaned forward, intense in both his posture and his tone. "It is not nearly as bad as you think."

I stared at him, pulling to my aid all my powers of observation. Watson appeared wholly sincere but could I believe what he said? I wanted to, desperately. Yet if I took him at his word and he was wrong . . . I shuddered to think of the consequences.

He sighed, apparently taking my silence for disbelief. "_Truly_, Holmes. Wounds heal. They may scar but they heal. And time, as they say, is a great healer." Watson paused, then said softly. "I had to learn how to live during war. I had to relearn how to live during peace. It took some time, I admit it. On occasion I was convinced it was an impossible task. A few demons I don't think shall ever be vanquished." He gave me a quick, rueful smile and gestured slightly towards the fireplace. "But you have no idea how much working with you on cases helped."

I gave a start. Was he joking? "You'll forgive me, I trust, if I say it seems paradoxical that putting you in danger – mortal danger, occasionally – helped you recover from living in mortal danger." I hoped I was able to convey a slight touch of irony in my voice.

Watson smiled, so apparently I had achieved my goal. "Ah, but you forget. This time I am in situations of mortal danger by choice, not by compulsion. This time the aim is justice, not political advantages."

I nodded slowly. "I think I understand." Despite the danger of our work, there is always a choice. We were never commanded to put our lives in danger, either of us. Watson had the power to decline accompanying me. That he never did so was beside the point; it was a matter of control, an element so often lacking in warfare. And the romantic streak in my friend surely responded to the idea of knight-errands of old, upholding the noble pursuits and triumphing over the powers of evil. Yes, I understood. "But it must have been difficult for you, in the beginning."

I watched Watson immediately formulate a denial and then change his mind even as he drew breath to answer. "Sometimes."

"How bad?" I asked him again. I realized, with all the glory of hindsight, how utterly oblivious I had been. It was too late to take back anything I might have done but I had to know the degree of damage I had caused. Only then could I ensure against falling into old habits.

Watson surprised me by smiling and leaning back in his chair. "It was not the danger that was hard to bear. It was small, innocuous things that caught me unawares and triggered memories."

Appropriately, his statement triggered a memory of my own. "When was the last time?"

"The last time for what?"

"You said early this morning that the last . . . regression . . . was more than ten years ago. I don't recall it." It was bitter to admit this.

"That is because you were not there at the time," Watson said simply. I felt a rush of relief before he continued, falling into his familiar role of storyteller. "It was between Christmas of '84 and New Year's of '85. I don't recall where you were but Mrs. Hudson had decided to bake loaves of bread to donate to some charities. The smell of baking bread was overpowering and inescapable." He laughed. "And the look she gave me when I asked her to kindly keep her baking to a minimum in the future!"

"The smell of baking bread?" I asked, not daring yet to be amused as Watson was.

"Enteric fever. The patient gives off an odor of yeast."

I could feel a smile start. "You are joking."

"No, not at all. And after experiencing a ward full of such patients at the hottest part of the day, to say nothing of being one such patient . . ."

Now I laughed, despite myself. "Is that also the reason I have never seen you partake of beer?" I asked, suddenly making the connection.

Watson looked thoroughly amazed. "I cannot believe you took note of that," he laughed, "but yes, that is the reason."

I found myself smiling too, until I realized how neatly he had changed the subject and then distracted me to keep me from returning to my original question. Hidden fires indeed! I never get my Watson's limits. "And what is the reason you have avoided telling me what difficulties you faced when we first began investigating cases together?"

Watson sobered immediately and straightened in his chair but did not hesitate to answer. "Because it would serve no useful purpose, Holmes. Whatever difficulties I faced have been overcome already. Why should you wish to revisit them?"

"So that I may avoid creating them in the future!" I exclaimed. I knew of no other way to make amends, not only for yesterday's disaster but my neglect of the past. Why could I not make him see? "It is no reflection on you, Watson, but I – " I swallowed hard. "I should not want you to suffer in the future because of my negligence."

"There is no danger of that," Watson insisted gently. "That you are even concerned about such things tells me so. Holmes, how can I convince you?"

Slowly, I said, "I believe you already have." It was close enough to the truth that I felt no twinges of my conscience. I was still not entirely convinced of my abilities to live up to his confidence in me, but I would try. As would he. There were a few demons left from his past – he had admitted it plainly – but I believed Watson was right when he said such incidences were rare. At any rate, we would confront them together.

Watson leaned back again. "And perhaps someday Afghanistan will be far enough in the past that I will be able to speak of it as freely as I can of India. I never told you how Colonel Hayter and I met, for example." A faint smile played on his lips. "I suppose he could tell you the story as well as I, though I imagine he should be more loath than I to speak of it."

"I imagine there is much to tell that neither of you are ready to speak of yet," I said quietly.

Watson inclined his head in acknowledgement. "If you can spare my presence for little while, I may pay him a visit. It has been years since the Reigate puzzle and I would not be averse to seeing some old acquaintances again."

I nodded as encouragingly as I could. It would be a simple task to perform but, at long last, there was something I could do for him.


	6. Chapter 6

AUGUST 20, 1895

Watson had returned after a fortnight at Reigate and by all appearances had fared well. Part of this, I'm sure, had to do with escaping London during the hottest time of year, though he has a high tolerance for sweltering weather – another souvenir from his service in Afghanistan. I remained in Baker Street. As much as I had enjoyed the colonel's company back in '87, I knew that my presence now would be an unwelcomed obstruction in much-needed conversation between veterans. At any rate, I found myself at no loss for activities.

The fruits of one such project lay on Watson's desk. While he unpacked upstairs, I left the single sheet of paper next to his unread mail. Then I retired to the table where I continued to clip articles for my indexes, another project I had undertaken in Watson's absence. The table also offered a superior vantage point from which I might clearly observe my friend's reaction.

Undoubtedly my impatience was to blame but it seemed Watson was taking an age to unpack. When at last he returned to the sitting room he was smiling to himself. "It seems for once you were wrong, Holmes. The 'much neither of us were ready to speak of' turned out to be surprisingly small."

"I am glad," I replied, sincerely. As much as I wanted to surprise Watson, there was another matter that needed attending. "By the by, I have been requested to ask you about Beledi dancing girls and to note your response."

His response was to stare at me in bewilderment while a blush slowly spread over his face. "Requested by whom? The colonel?"

I pointed to the offending telegram. "He must have sent it shortly after you left for it arrived well before you did."

Watson shook his head. "I cannot believe he did that," he laughed.

"Are you deliberately avoiding answering?"

"No! There is really nothing to tell." The blush did not dissipate; if anything, it increased.

I was hard-pressed to keep a grin from my face. "Hayter also said that if you demurred, I was to ask your opinion of Karachi's Beledi versus that of Bombay's."

Watson snorted in half-amusement, half-exasperation but he blushed a darker shade. "Yes, I have no doubt he would be quite interested in that." Then his better nature won out and he sat at the table across from me, smiling faintly. "Two nights before the troopship _Orontes_ left Karachi, the colonel dragged me – despite my protests, might I add – to an establishment specializing in . . . such entertainments. His comment about Karachi and Bombay references my protest that –" I had not thought it possible but Watson went redder "—that I had already seen such performances in Bombay and so need not see another in Karachi."

"And what, exactly, does Beledi dancing encompass?"

Watson gave me a dark look and reached for the "B" volume of my index. Thumbing through it rapidly, he handed me the open volume and pointed at a paragraph. "That, I believe, should answer your question."

The paragraph in question was short, but explicit. "I see," I said, feeling a blush of my own. I clapped the book shut and slid it from me, feeling rather than seeing my friend's amusement at my expense.

"As for the differences between regions, the Bombay dancers wore noticeably less clothing but the Karachi dancers were much less . . . inhibited in their movements," Watson added, rather puckishly.

I could feel my cheeks grow warmer and I cleared my throat abruptly. "Your mail is on your desk," I said, gesturing with my paste brush.

"I suppose I should see if the old devil sent me any such missiles as well," he laughed. I grabbed an index at random and bent my head over it. Surreptitiously I glanced his way while he methodically sorted through them. Any moment now . . .

"What's this?" Watson paused, the piece of paper in his hand and a furrow on his brow. For once, I had taken pains to write clearly and neatly. Aloud, he read, " 'Henry Murray. Orderly, 66th Berkshires. Bachelor of Medicine, 1894, Saint Bart's of London. Current residence – Holmes, what is this?"

"Keep reading," I said, keeping my head bent.

"Surgeon General Alexander Francis Preston(1), Surgeon General Ernest Fuller Ives, Brigadier General George Burrows, Surgeon Major William Bennet . . . Holmes!"

"Yes, Watson?" At last I trusted myself to look at him directly and was not disappointed. If Hayter's relayed telegram had surprised him, I had astonished him entirely.

"These are all people I served with or came into close contact with in Afghanistan and India," he said, "but you've included their current residences and occupations. How on earth did you come by this information?"

I smiled. "I am Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to uncover information that is not readily accessible to others."

In truth, it had taken nearly the entire fortnight and both conventional and unconventional means to compile the little list that lay in Watson's hand. Among these were hours spent pouring over old army records; a telegram sent to Colonel Hayter immediately after Watson left Baker Street, with the strictest instructions to employ discretion; unrelenting badgering of my brother Mycroft; and, I regret to say, Watson's own medical and military records. Despite the breach of privacy, the latter had been the most helpful tool in my search. The doctors who had recorded Watson's information were most likely to still be alive and have been in close contact with him. Sadly, the 66th Berkshires had been virtually decimated. Any friends Watson made among them would have killed. Indeed, of the few names Hayter had mentioned, not a one of them had survived Maiwand. These unfortunates I did not include on the list; undoubtedly Watson knew of their fates already.

That thought reminded me of something. "I should warn you, before you read further, that not all the information there is felicitous. Some are now deceased."

Watson appeared to have not heard me, or at least to have not grasped what I said. "I cannot thank you enough for this, Holmes."

I turned back to the index, slightly embarrassed. "There is no need, Watson. I had the resources at my disposal. If you can use anything I have uncovered, that is thanks enough."

There as a long pause, during which I dared not look up. Then, quietly, Watson said, "There are a few here that you say currently live in London. Should I visit them, would you care to join me?"

At that I looked back at him. He was very much in earnest. Feeling as though our roles had been reversed, I replied, "If you are certain I would not be intruding, I would be delighted."

(1) Preston was a Surgeon Major when attached to the 66th. Rumor has it his life inspired Doyle's characterization of a particular doctor, as Preston was also wounded at Maiwand.

If anyone cares to see some people Watson could have come into contact with, replace the hyphens with periods and check out: www-garenewing-co-uk/angloafghanwar/biography/portraits-php

Especially check out the picture of Lt.Neville Francis Fitzgerald Chamberlain – he looks a lot like how I imagine Watson.


	7. Chapter 7

_Stupid internet went down yesterday – here's two chapters squished together to make up for it._

It was another week before Watson made reference to the persons or addresses on the list. For my part, I obeyed my instincts and followed his lead. I even attempted to hold my deductions about his trains of thought to a minimum, though I confess I failed miserably. He was unsure as to what good it would do to seek out people he had not seen in fifteen years, uneasy that his motives might be selfish ones, and unsure about what he might find.

Of the names on the list, about half lived in England. Of the other half, some were deceased (Dr. William Bennet, who had treated Watson in Kandahar just following the Battle of Maiwand, had died in a cholera outbreak in '84) and some were still serving overseas (Dr. William Preston, of Quetta, had been transferred to India.) Colonel Hayter I had not bothered to list, for obvious reasons. Surgeon General Alexander Francis Preston, formerly Major Surgeon, under whom Watson had served as Assistant Surgeon in the 66th Berkshires, actually resided in London. Watson had been vague about seeing him, finally admitting that he and Preston had not always seen eye to eye about some matters. "Preston was always very proper and 'by the books'," he explained, with a faint grin, "while I was a bit more . . . bohemian." By this, I took him to mean Preston did not approve of Watson's attending to the natives with the army's supplies and equipment.

In the end, Watson chose Henry Murray first. It was a logical choice; as orderly and surgeon they had been close, and the fact that Murray quite literally saved Watson's life certainly held weight. On the other hand, Murray now resided in Southampton, half a day's travel from London.

Murray had continued to serve as an orderly for various officers until 1890, when he was granted an honorable discharge. Almost immediately, he enrolled at the University of London's Bachelor of Medicine program. He took his degree after four years, an accomplishment even more impressive given that he had spent the years also working in St. Bart's. Murray spent one more year employed at St. Bart's when he was hired to teach some classes at Netley Royal Victoria Military Hospital for their Army surgical course. He was to begin this week.

"I had considered the same thing," Watson commented on our train ride to Southampton.

I nodded, though this information was nothing new. I had seen the letter of discharge in his record, and the second medical review file. I also remembered an incident from August of 1881.

_I __recognize__d, as I handed Watson the letter, the Netley device on the envelope. __His hopeful expression started one of my lines of deduction. Netley was the last w__ord in military medical training__I knew Watson had "passed" his second medical review__ earlier that month__ which dropped his pension from full to half__, a financial strain by any account__I also knew he was restless from inactivity. It was perfectly logical, given his "field experience" that Watson would have applied for a faculty position. I had no doubt he would be well-suited in such a role and I wished him luck in that endeavor, though it meant I would have to find a new flatmate._

_ I felt a sinking sort of pity when I saw his face grow still and stiff as he read. Finally he carefully refolded the letter and lightly tossed it into the fireplace. Without a word, he took his hat and coat and slipped out the door._

_When he returned it was already dark. __I noted signs that he spent much of his time at Stamford's club (the club which, years later, Stamford was to leave and Watson was to join) and that he had partaken of alcohol. Not that he was drunk. I have never yet seen Watson in such a condition, yet the last drink had not entirely worn off. Given my use of narcotics, however, I thought it tactful to say nothing on that front. I was glad to note he seemed in much better spirits than when he had left._

_"So, Doctor, you will remain in London for a little while yet?"_

_He looked at me in surprise, not yet accustomed to my sudden (and correct) deductions concerning him. "For a while yet, if you can put up with my company," he replied, showing __what promised to be__ a pawky sense of humor. __He seated himself in his chair, toying with a business card._

_Later, after he had retired, I saw that it was Stamford's card, with his University of London information, and penned on the back was the name of a colleague. Watson, it seemed, had shifted loyalties to another alma mater._

Netley Hospital did not lay within Southampton proper. Indeed, the grounds covered well over twenty-five acres while the building itself was over a quarter of a mile long with three floors. By the time we reached the school and got directions to the room where Murray was teaching, it was well into the middle of the last lecture of the morning. We opted to wait outside the door until the lecture was over, rather than interrupt.

I spent the time forming my first impressions about this person who had played such a large role in Watson's life. Henry Murray was on the shorter side with a strong build. His coloring was that of a "dark Celt" with an olive complexion and black hair liberally streaked with gray. His face was heavily lined from years under tropical suns and there was a white scar extending from the corner of his right eye down almost to his mouth. True to the ancestry of his surname, Murray spoke with a pronounced Scottish burr that had survived despite his years outside of Scotland. (Watson's had faded considerably, but then, he told me once it had never been that strong to begin with.)

I do not know what the subject of the lecture was but the students seemed genuinely reluctant to leave for lunch. As they passed us, Watson suddenly whispered to me, "Surely the oldest ones here cannot be more than twenty-two. It is ridiculous to expect them to go to war. They are far too young."

I raised my eyebrows. "And how old were you, when last you attended a lecture here?"

Startled and sheepish, he muttered, "Twenty-six." Then, seeing my smirk, Watson added, "Holmes, _I_ was too young."

Murray was gathering the last of his notes into neat piles. Now was the best time to speak. Watson slipped inside and started towards the speaker's lectern, I following him. Murray looked up as we approached. He was surprised when he saw that we were not students, and he stared at Watson in the manner of a man trying to pull a name from the recesses of his brain.

"You were quite right not to take my service revolver that day," Watson offered. "I did have use for it afterwards, many times."

This reference went over my head but it was clearly the nudge Murray needed to part the mists of memory. "My God! Dr. Watson!" He laughed in delight. "Whatever are you doing at Netley?"

Watson was grinning broadly. "Looking for you. Murray, this is Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, Dr. Henry Murray(2)."

The little man pumped my hand enthusiastically. "It's an honor to meet you, sir, and I'm delighted to see you did not perish at Reichenbach. I always wondered if the Dr. Watson who narrated those stories was the same man I had served with in Afghanistan."

"I can assure you the honor is mine," I replied. "It is because of your actions that Watson lives to write those stories."

Murray blushed and waved away my comment. "It was my duty, Mr. Holmes."

"No, you were always one to go far 'above and beyond the call of duty,' Murray," Watson contradicted. His voice softened slightly. "I cannot tell you how relieved I was to hear that you survived the siege at Kandahar. I only regret that I was not able to send word sooner but by the time I was able to send a reply -- "

"I had been transferred again," Murray finished, matter-of-fact. Before they could journey too deeply into reminiscing, I suggested we adjourn elsewhere and we slowly made our way to Murray's rooms.

As we walked, Murray asked, "But did you not send word by way of one of the doctors in September?"

Watson looked puzzled. "No. The only telegraphs I sent were the ones asking about you just after the siege failed and the one I sent you in early October."

Now it was Murray's turn to look puzzled. "I received a telegraph in late September with news of your illness, and then another one about a week later saying you were recovering. The second one was in your name."

"No, I had neither the strength nor lucidity to send word to anyone until October," Watson replied frankly. "Who send the first?"

Murray shook his head. "I don't recall. A doctor. Short name, began with a vowel."

Watson stopped walking, forcing Murray and myself to halt also. "Was the name Ives?"

"Perhaps. It sounds vaguely familiar. Why, what is wrong?"

A strange look had crossed my friend's face and he resumed walking. "Nothing, only surprise. But tell me, what made you decide to go into medicine after your discharge?"

"You did." At Watson's startled look, Murray continued. "You were not the first surgeon I was orderly to, but you were the first to insist I 'learn the ropes,' so to speak. After I was reassigned, it made sense to continue learning all I could about injuries and illness and how to treat them. I could be of greater assistance the more knowledge I attained. And, to be truthful, medicine and the army was all I knew. After I was discharged, all I had left was medicine."

"Do you regret joining the army?"

Murray smiled slyly. "I recognize that question, Doctor. You never did answer me then, and we _did_ get out of there alive."

Watson smiled in return. "That is fair enough." The smile faded and he said, simply, "No. I don't."

"Nor do I."

We continued walking along in silence when presently one of them asked some medical question of the other. As the conversation drifted on towards the inevitable "shop talk," I held my tongue and gave in to my musings.

It is odd how the fates of certain individuals can become so entwined with those of others. I could not imagine how my life would have ended up if I had never met Watson, or perhaps I couldn't bear to imagine it. It had been a close thing, so many times over. Had Watson never joined the Army . . . or had Murray been assigned to another surgeon at Maiwand . . . if the Afghan sniper had been more accurate in his shot . . . or Murray less loyal to his assigned officer . . . But then, without Watson starting his feet along the path that would lead to his calling, who knows how Murray would have ended his days. I wallowed about the murky depths of philosophy for a little while and shuddered faintly.

Now I turned my attention to the little matter of Murray's telegraphs from September 1880. I recognized the name "Ives" from the list I had compiled, and had little doubt we would be meeting the man himself at some point in the near future. I smiled to myself; the identity of the sender of the second telegraph was no mystery. However, I was curious as to what manner of man this Dr. Ives was.

(2) Technically, Murray is still only "Mister" although legally a Bachelor of Medicine can use the title "Doctor." Watson is acknowledging him as a fellow medicine man.


	8. Chapter 8

The interview with Murray ended reluctantly and Watson was quiet on the train back to London. As he had so often done for me, I allowed him his silence. At last he shook himself from his reverie and smiled at me. "I hope you were not too bored when Murray and I began arguing over vasomotor changes in _tabes dorsalis._"

"No, not at all," I replied honestly. "I engaged in solving Murray's mystery of the second telegraph."

"I cannot imagine that took very long," Watson said, with a hint of laughter.

"No," I admitted, "but it would have occupied me much longer had you not revealed the name of the chief suspect."

"Ives? Yes, it would be very much in character for him."

"And what sort of man possesses such a character?"

Watson's eyebrows shot up. "I suppose, Holmes," said he, dryly, "the same sort of man who would use the name of his flatmate in _Times_ advertisements and sends telegrams declaring 'come at once if convenient; if inconvenient, come all the same.'" (3)

When I gaped at him, he laughed. "In some ways, the two of you resemble one another. I was struck by it when we first moved into Baker Street. I do not consciously seek out such people; you always seem to find me, no matter where in the world I go."

"Those were but one-time occurrences," I protested feebly.

Watson chuckled again. "If I truly minded, Holmes, you would know of it" – which was of little comfort to me. I had sworn to myself to overcome my blind spots where Watson was concerned. And I did not especially care to be compared to a doctor who would send correspondence about a patient behind that patient's back. I found that I very much wanted to meet this man.

"Will you be paying Dr. Ives a visit soon?"

"Would you care to come along, if I do?" Watson asked knowingly.

Had I become so predictable since my return to London? How disconcerting. I shrugged, feigning carelessness. "I should not decline an invitation," I replied with dignity.

The look on my friend's face told me he was not fooled. "This Thursday, then . . . if it is convenient."

"If inconvenient, I shall come all the same," I said, and Watson laughed again.

xxx

According to my research, Dr. Ernest Fuller Ives had continued to run a field hospital in Peshawar well into 1891 when, at the age of seventy, he was discharged. He had taken up residence in the outskirts of London, tended by a housekeeper and a personal attendant. He had not gone into practice in England. All this had gone into the list I gave to Watson.

A few details I omitted. Ives had suffered a heart-attack in '91, which precipitated his discharge. He fiercely resented his discharge. His health was a deterrent in seeking a practice. The current attendant was a trained nurse, working to pay his way through medical school.

Why had I not told Watson? In short, because I was unsure of how close they had been in Peshawar. Ives had written the report for Watson's first medical review, as well as the supplement report, but I recognized my friend's turn of phrase in the supplement. An attending physician who allowed the patient, albeit a fellow doctor, to assist in his own medical report had to have implicit trust in the patient.

I had sought to spare Watson a little anguish for a friend but in hindsight I realized how unintentionally cruel it was not to prepare him. On the cab ride to Ives's residence, I quickly told all I knew. Watson was angered at first, both at my deception and at the circumstances in which I revealed the information. "You could not have told me before?" he snapped, before glaring out the window. I apologized, quietly, and let him be. After a while, he regained his composure.

"You have a deplorable sense of timing, Holmes, but I am glad you told me," he said at last, tearing his gaze from the window. "I should hate to have no inkling of his condition going into it." I nodded, understanding I was forgiven, at least for the most part.

The house was small but kept in good repair. Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper, met us at the door. She was a small personage, rather rotund, who favored cooking with potatoes, used lye soap frequently but had a weakness for Pear's soap for her own skin, knitted with worsted wool quite often, and though she was not overly fond of Dr. Ives she was steadfast in her duty to him. "I'm very sorry, gentlemen, but Dr. Ives does not receive visitors. Especially those who call unannounced," she added with a touch of maliciousness.

Watson dug into his pockets for the stub of a pencil and one of his cards. He printed three words on the back, which I was unable to read, and handed it to Mrs. Davies. "If the doctor reads this and still does not wish to see us, we shall leave then, but not before." Sourly, Mrs. Davies agreed and closed the door in our faces.

"Such an amiable woman," I observed sardonically. "Let us hope she does not portend what is to come." Watson only smiled and shook his head slightly, as though he fully anticipated a less than cordial welcome.

"What did you write on the card?" I asked to pass the time. Before Watson could reply, however, Mrs. Davies reappeared, looking sourer than ever.

"Dr. Ives says that although it is a great personal inconvenience, he supposes he can deign to spare an hour or two to see you." She allowed us entry and stormed her way down the hall to the sitting room. If this was the housekeeper, I wondered how much worse the master of the establishment could be like.

"Was Ives always this gracious?" I murmured.

"Oh, no," Watson replied, quite blandly. "Sometimes he was downright rude."

"And I resemble him in some ways?" I asked, slightly indignant. His response was almost too soft for me to catch although it sounded very much like, "if the shoe fits." Before I could reply myself, Mrs. Davies announced us and we entered.

(3) STUDY IN SCARLET and CREEPING MAN, respectively.

_Again, please do not pelt the author with rotten fruit. Or even fresh fruit. I've seen Monty __Python and know how to __disarm a madman armed with fruit. __So there!_


	9. Chapter 9

The doctor himself sat in a straight-backed chair with a light rug thrown over his lap and the attendant nearby. The erectness of his carriage could be attributed to military bearing though I doubted it. Ives was a man too imperial and commandeering to slouch. He still had a full head of hair though it was white with speckles of grey. His face was deeply wrinkled, far more than Murray's, from decades of tropical sun, though he had lost all traces of suntan. Indeed, he was a trifle pale. Piercing blue eyes peered out from under bushy eyebrows, the only hair on his face. I was not a doctor myself but I could not fail to note the slight wheeze to his breathing, nor the paleness of his skin. All in all, Ives reminded me of a roosted falcon, aging but still capable of inflicting considerable damage on one unlucky enough to cross him.

"Beechem, you may leave us," Ives said crisply. "I am certain two doctors are up to any mishaps that may arise." His voice had the breathy strain common to the elderly yet his enunciation was perfect.

The attendant hesitated until Ives turned to fix him with a pointed glare. With a sigh and a nod in our direction, he headed for the door. Before he left, however, I saw he and Watson exchange knowing, resigned looks. Clearly, time had not softened the old doctor.

"Yes, I am still as crotchety as ever," Ives said, as though reading my mind, though was not addressing me. He gestured for us to sit. "Gotten worse, if anything. Dr. Watson, you're looking well. Far better than last I saw you. And if you say the same about me, I shall lose all respect for your abilities as a doctor."

Watson was already seated. "Well, if were a man of less tact, I should say you are looking far worse than last I saw you. Indeed, I should say that you look downright terrible. Fortunately, I have more diplomacy than to say so to your face."

I was startled, as I had never heard my friend speak in so cavalier a manner, even in jest, but Ives merely grinned. "I thought you could make an accurate diagnosis, if anyone could. Thank you for proving me right. And you, sir. You are Sherlock Holmes, I take it?" I acknowledged that I was, and immediately Ives asked if this were an investigation.

"No," I said, while simultaneously Watson answered, "yes."

While we looked at each other, Ives chuckled. "Would you gentlemen care for some time alone to get your story straight?"

"It is an investigation into a minor matter," Watson clarified before I could reply. Surely he did not mean . . . "It concerns two telegraphs."

For his part, Ives understood immediately. His posture straightened even further and his cold, white hands came together in his lap. "Two telegraphs, to a fellow named Murray. Sent fifteen years ago."

It was not a question but Watson nodded. "Precisely."

"There is but one small problem," Ives replied and I detected a sly glint in his eyes. "There were three telegraphs sent from my hospital in Peshawar to Murray in Kandahar. I sent but two, and those two were in my name."

"The third was sent in Watson's name, though it was not he who sent it," I said.

Ives turned that falcon-stare to me. "And what can you deduce from that, Mr. Holmes?" he asked with a touch of a smirk.

Now Watson turned to look at me as well. I leaned back in my chair and steepled my fingers together. "What I deduce is that you are telling the truth but telling it slant, as an American poet once put it. You did indeed send Henry Murray two telegraphs, and in your name. One revealed details about Watson's bout with enteric fever."

"Dr. Watson very ill. Who is next of kin?" Ives murmured, as though quoting.

"The second telegraph, I presume, said that you would keep Murray informed."

"Will send word if the worst," Ives confirmed softly.

"Murray himself does not recall this message, which is of little surprise to me. It had no features that would stick in a man's head, especially compared with the first and the third telegraphs."

"And the third telegraph?"

"The third you did not send," I answered, while my mind raced through the possibilities. Ives knew there were three telegraphs. He readily admitted sending two; why would he prevaricate about sending the third? No, he told the truth. But who, then?

Wait.

How had Ives known who Murray was in the first place, and thus where to send the telegraphs? Watson had mentioned the siege of Kandahar. Knowing my friend, Watson would have been frantic, trying his best to learn about Murray's fate. He may have told Ives then. But Murray had been assigned to a new officer after the siege, while Watson was ill. And Watson had not learned this until he was recovering, in early October.

The siege had lifted in early September. No doubt Murray tried to contact Watson soon afterwards, but by then Watson was in no condition to receive his mail. The first telegraph to Murray had gone out in the middle of that month.

"You read Watson's mail while he was ill!" I gasped.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes," said Ives shamelessly. "But what does that have to do with the third telegraph?"

In point of fact, nothing. But I was still taken aback by the man's audacity. "It gives me an insight into your lack of character," I barked. "A man who would do such a thing –"

"Holmes!"

Watson, I saw, was also a trifle hot under the collar, but it seemed I was the object of his ire. He leaned back in the chair (having sprung forward at the first exclamation) and looked at me intently. "As the person whose mail was violated, I and I alone reserve the right to berate Ives for reading my mail when I was ill. And have already chosen not to do so."

"Thanked me for it, in fact," Ives put in, smiling faintly.

"Thanked?" This I could not believe. "Why?"

"Because he was dying!" Ives snapped. The old man had gained some color in his anger and his eyebrows fairly bristled. I glanced at Watson, who had not turned a hair at the pronouncement, and then back at Ives.

Ives met my look without flinching. "You don't know how close you came to never having a biographer." It was as though the old soldier knew of my musings of the turns of fate in Southampton. I suppressed a shiver. "He was dying, and the only name I had to go on was Murray's. I hadn't a clue who Murray was -- for all I knew he was a next of kin – and I had to find out somehow. And quickly."

"He's right, Holmes," Watson said quietly. "His methods may not have been regulation," and here there was faint mockery in his tone, directed at me, "but they were the best recourse in the situation. Even I knew I was dying." I gave a start of surprise, and saw Ives do the same. Watson continued, his face calm, almost pensive. "I remember thinking it plainly, one of the few clear and coherent thoughts I had at the time. I was very matter-of-fact about it. "

For a moment Ives's expression softened with sorrow and he looked every minute of his age. Then he looked at me and he was once again the old falcon. "So you see, Mr. Holmes, I am not _completely_ bereft of character as you supposed."

"No," I agreed but once again my mind was on a different track. "In fact, you showed a great deal of compassion for Murray and for Watson when you penned the first, second and third telegraphs."

"I sent only two telegraphs!"

I smiled, perhaps with a touch of maliciousness, at the Ives's insistent tone. "Indeed you did, but you _wrote_ all three."

It made perfect sense. Watson had often written that I eschew emotion, and it is true I strive for objectivity in all things. However, I am perfectly capable of recognizing sentiment when it is displayed before my eyes. Ives was very fond of Watson, and because of that he had extended a courtesy to a man he knew Watson worried over. Ives had had the message sent in Watson's name so as to ease Murray's mind further, implying that Watson was well enough to be sending telegraphs on his own.

Watson sent a questioning look at Ives, who silently stared at the hands folded in his lap. Finally he sighed and looked up at me. "Bravo, Mr. Holmes," he said quietly without a trace of irony. "You do not disappoint."

"I fear you do me too much of an honor," I replied. "I confess I still do not know the sender of the third telegraph, except that he was an able confederate, and a subordinate."

"And how the devil do you know that, sir?"

"Because an equal would have signed his own name, or refused to have anything to do with your scheme. A subordinate would have had no choice and obeyed out of fear . . . or loyalty."

"Foley," Watson said suddenly. He wore an expression I had felt often on my own features, when the pieces of the puzzle fall into place with startling clarity. "The young orderly you put on staff when so many of the regulars had fallen ill. Edward Foley!"

Ives grinned. "And bravo to you as well, Doctor. It seems detection is as contagious as measles. Perhaps I will contract it next."

"Do not make light of this!" Watson protested, and I nearly laughed at how quickly he had gone from defending Ives to haranguing him. "Why did you have to drag that poor boy into your schemes?"

"I didn't," Ives replied, turning his glare onto my friend. "I simply did not have the time to send the third telegraph myself so I gave it to Foley and told him to have it sent off immediately. That was the extent of his involvement. He was a good lad, did as he was told. Unlike some others I could name."

Watson ignored the implication. " '_Was_ a good lad'?"

"Living in Manchester, I believe, where is family is from. Took up his father's barbering establishment some years ago." Ives idly examined his nails. "The lad had absolutely no business being in the army or a hospital setting. Fortunately he developed a heart condition in early '81 and had to be discharged completely."

"Came upon him quite suddenly?" Watson asked knowingly.

The old man raised his eyes sardonically. "Oh, yes. Just shortly after it became plain to me that if he remained in the army he would not last long."

"And how is his condition now?"

"Very well, I believe. The condition mysteriously cleared up on its own after he returned to England. Quite a strange thing, that." The smile Ives gave us, and its twin on Watson's face, confirmed my suspicions. Reading patients' mail, falsifying serious medical conditions . . . the Army must have been relieved to get rid of him.

The matter of the telegraphs solved, our conversation turned to more social channels until Beechem silently materialized and declared that over three hours had passed. We decided to take our leave. As I shook hands with Ives, he pulled me down closer and whispered, "Keep an eye on that stubborn young fool for me. He seems a trifle more willing to listen to reason now but leopards don't change their spots." I nodded my acquiescence.

I didn't hear what he said to Watson, but judging from the look of amused exasperation, it was something in the same vein as what he had said to me. As we hailed a cab Watson asked, "Just what was it that he said to you?"

"I shall tell you, if you tell me what it was you wrote on your card that gained us entry in the first place."

He smirked. "I wrote 'stubborn old fool.'"

I raised an eyebrow. "Is there significance to that phrase? It is very close to what he called you."

"That is why I wrote it. Now, what did he say to you?"

"He asked me to keep an eye on you. He seemed to think you were apt to get into trouble, even now."

Watson laughed softly. "I'd forgotten that. Ives never did have a high opinion of me in that respect. He once threatened to have me sedated or tied to the bed for a week."

I chose not to ask why. There were some mysteries I did not want to know the solutions to.


	10. Chapter 10

October 1895

Revisiting old friends over the summer had canceled out some of Watson's reluctance to speak about his time in Afghanistan, and stories trickled forth accordingly. Some were brought up from points in our conversation; a few he told at my gentle insistence. One or two seemed to have welled up spontaneously, completely incongruous to the subject at hand, though I never tried to stop him from speaking. There was a near-desperation behind them, a compelling urge to share what he had been burdened with for so long. He required little of me, only a sympathetic ear with an occasional remark. My primary task was to be his sounding-board, a role Watson had often played for me. I found the reversal strange at first, comparable to putting one's boot on the wrong foot. Nevertheless, it was not much to ask of me and I was happy to be of service to my friend in whatever way he required.

Together we had paid Colonel Hayter another visit, and on the journey home Watson finally related the circumstances which were the cause for their first meeting, a few months prior to Maiwand.

"It was acute appendicitis," he said, once again in the position he adopted for storytelling. "I do not know the statistics but I would swear to it that ninety percent of such cases happen between the hours of one and five in the morning. The colonel was no exception. He awoke the first orderly he came across – Harris, I believe was his name – who was just shy of a complete bungler. The man was terrified of Major Preston, so he had Murray wake me instead. Technically speaking, it should have been Preston, as he was my commanding officer. And I was none too pleased at being roused in the middle of the night for immediate surgery." I smiled. Watson gave a Gallic shrug and continued.

"While I prepared my instruments, Harris was supposed to be preparing the colonel for surgery. As you can imagine, Colonel Hayter is not a man to suffer fools any more than the major. He saw Harris's incompetence immediately and made to leave the surgery, despite the pain he was in. Harris, in his attempt to stop the colonel, knocked over the lamp and plunged the room into completely darkness. At this time, I heard the commotion and entered the room. To give the man credit, Harris did have the presence of mind to prepare a cotton pad with chloroform for surgery that he then intended to use to subdue Colonel Hayter. Unfortunately, in the dark, he mistook me for the colonel."

Watson paused and grinned, no doubt to increase the dramatic tension, to very good effect. I straightened up in my seat. "What happened?"

"All I knew at the moment was that someone had veritably attacked me and covered my face with a cotton pad reeking of chloroform. I had no idea why but of course I strove to throw the man off. Naturally, Harris assumed the colonel was trying to fight back so he pinned me down – the fellow was confoundedly strong – and pressed the pad even tighter over my nose and mouth. I didn't dare breathe for fear I'd succumb to the anesthesia entirely but I was desperate to get him off me. As it was, I was already becoming light-headed."

Watson paused again but this time I resisted urging him on, realizing he was deliberately teasing me.

"I had the presence of mind to realize he would release me if he though I were unconscious so I went as limp as I could, given the circumstances. Fortunately, it worked and Harris let me up, leaving the pad over my face. I waited a moment longer, until my lungs burned for oxygen. Then I sat up, tore the cloth from my face, and shouted at Harris to get the lamp lit again. In point of fact, it was Colonel Hayter who uprighted and relit the lamp. At that moment, in stormed Major Preston, who had been awakened by the noise. I daresay we made quite the tableau: the orderly looking aghast and guilty, the doctor half-chloroformed on the ground, and the patient towering over both, scowling fearsomely."

I laughed outright at the picture he described, and Watson joined in, ruefully. "I wonder that Colonel Hayter allowed anyone to operate on him after that," I remarked.

"Well, he had little choice in the matter. Preston had taken over the surgery and he was just as commanding as Hayter. At any rate, Hayter was in too much pain by then to argue with anyone. I was light-headed and ill from the chloroform so I simply staggered back to bed and Harris was left in disgrace. Fellow was transferred to a different unit soon afterwards." (3)

"I trust both you and the colonel made full recoveries?" I asked between chuckles.

Watson hesitated, which surprised me out of my mirth. "Apart from a headache, I was quite well the next morning. However, Hayter was in an abnormal amount of pain. At first I was puzzled, since there was no infection or other cause for his discomfort. He had been given the regular dose of morphine but it didn't seem to be taking effect. I had my suspicions but I didn't wish to act upon them until the man himself told me."

I lacked the medical training to make a deduction with any degree of confidence and I was unwilling to guess. "What was wrong?"

Watson sighed faintly. "The morphine had had no effect on his pain because the colonel had been taking the same amount of morphine on a daily basis for quite some time. He had become too tolerant of the drug for it to be effective."

"He was a morphine addict?" I asked, half-incredulous. "I should never have pictured the colonel in such a state."

"I would not have either," admitted Watson. "He was remarkably adept at hiding it, and I had not seen him regularly enough to notice."

We sat in silence for a bit until Watson spoke again. "It not a pleasant process, breaking his addiction, especially with the war around us and his pain from surgery. In the end, though, he was glad to be free of it. He told me once he had not been able to look himself square in the mirror until the last vestiges of the cravings were gone."

I recalled my own small battles with morphine and cocaine. My usage had been infrequent and the doses small enough that I had found the process somewhat irksome but not debilitating. I knew how lucky I was to escape that misery, and that Watson had been so doggedly persistent in that cause. Of course, my hiatus after Reichenbach had not been conducive to chemical dependencies. Nevertheless, I had not truly recognized how great a debt I owed to Watson. Without his influence, I might have progressed further into the grip of those twin fiends instead of casting them off entirely.

Nor had I realized his crusade was so long in its running. "No wonder your opinion of narcotics is so contrary to those of your colleagues (4)," I commented, striving for flippancy.

To my dismay, Watson muttering something to the affirmative and attempted to engross himself with the scenery, which was dull and dismal at best. I realized we stood on the brink of facing another ghost from my friend's past, one whose presence I had not been entirely ignorant of but had never really noted. There was more to this issue than Hayter or myself; I was sure of it.

"Watson."

He turned to look in my direction without looking directly at me.

"There was someone else you saw struggle with the drug," I said gently, willing him to understand he need not bear the burden alone. Instead, Watson turned back to that blasted window. The silence between us stretched on. Then . . .

"Yes," he whispered.

(3) I must confess to "borrowing" a story Doyle mentions in passing in (I think) _Round the Red Lamp_ but I have a happier ending for the surgeon in this version than Doyle had in his.

(4) Thank you, rabidsamfan, for finding the article "Sherlock Holmes's Cocaine Habit" online, with its comment about Watson being ahead of his time concerning the dangers of drugs.


	11. Chapter 11

There are distinct disadvantages to having carefully honed a sense of suspicion. Watson's unwillingness to speak of this third person, his avoidance of my gaze, gave me a decided chill. Though he spoke of Afghanistan freely now, he had not yet revealed any details about his own convalescence in England. I knew the old wounds still caused him pain on occasion. It stood to reason the pain had been greater when the wounds were fresh. And I knew how easy it was to become dependent on morphine, long after the initial cause for the painkiller had passed. I found my heart had begun to pound.

I feared it was Watson who had battled morphine addiction. And I feared to hear him confirm it.

Watson continued to stare out the window, the countryside in dull shades of autumnal gray. It had begun to rain lightly. The silence in our compartment was no less oppressive. I wracked my brain for thoughts, words, anything, that might close the lengthening gap between us. Without prompts, my tongue remained dumb and useless. Again, I was forced to follow my friend's lead. But if he chose not to lead, if he were waiting to follow mine . . . did I have the fortitude and strength of character needed to break that terrible silence?

"Who was he?" I asked before I lost my nerve entirely.

"A patient of mine," Watson murmured. "No," he added suddenly, more loudly, "that is not entirely accurate." My heart clenched painfully.

"He was not truly a patient of mine, though I did treat him. Nor did I see him struggle with the drug." The word "struggle" was lightly emphasized and I dared to feel a kindling of hope.

"He succumbed to it?"

"In a way, yes. It certainly hastened his death."

"Thank God!" I cried, going limp with relief. I had been wrong, and I had never been so happy admit it in all my life.

Watson, poor fellow, was not privy to my thoughts and at my outburst he turned to look at me with a mixture of outrage, surprise, and confusion. Only then did I realize how he must have construed my exclamation. Quickly, I held up a hand to stay his words. "I do beg your pardon, Watson. I refer not to the deceased unfortunate."

"To what, then?"

"To my ability to acknowledge that even I am prone to drawing erroneous conclusions. Pray continue."

Naturally, Watson could not let it go at that. I suppose part of it was my own fault, building up a reputation for infallibility though he has seen my mistakes, infrequent as they are. Puzzled, he asked, "What erroneous conclusion had you drawn, Holmes? And from what? There was precious little I've said to –" He broke off suddenly, realization dawning. "Good God, Holmes!"

I could not tell from his tone if he were amused or insulted. Perhaps he was both. "Again, I beg your pardon, Watson. However, in my defense, I have heard both men and women refer to fictional acquaintances when describing problems of their own."

"Thank you for having such confidence in my candor," Watson retorted. He had been insulted, I saw, but his innate tolerance for my eccentricities was gaining the upper hand. He shook his head. "No, Holmes, I took extensive pains to avoid falling into such a trap myself, not only from morphine but from opiates."

"Which, I am sure, was no small feat, given your close proximity to the Orient," I added, seeking to soothe his ruffled feelings.

Watson smiled in response and inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment. "To be completely frank, it was no great feat. Having had one vastly unpleasant personal experience with laudanum, I was not then, nor am I now, keen to see if a second experience would be equally unpleasant."

The little confession added more insight into Watson's prejudice against drugs in general and yet I was not willing to let the conversation slip onto other topics. "But what of your unfortunate patient who succumbed to morphine?" It was not the most graceful of transitions but it sufficed.

"He was not truly my patient. He was a wounded soldier who happened to be in the same bullock cart as me when we were traveling from Kandahar to Quetta. Nor was he an addict. I would assume, anyway." An odd look swept over Watson's face. He had revealed more than he had meant to, and now realized he had given me enough data to build up at least one theory.

"Holmes." His voice was strained, pleading. "Don't. Please."

_Don't deduce; don't theorize; don't draw conclusions_ was what he meant. As much as I wished I could comply, it was not in my nature. It was far too late anyway, for my mind had already begun weaving together the threads. I let my regret show on my features and I shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, Watson," I whispered. He sighed, sounding infinitely tired, and waited for me to finish my deductions while he gazed at some point on the floor between our feet.

They were not long in coming. A wounded soldier, died of morphine, not an addict . . . An overdose, then, from a doctor who was undertrained or overzealous. Or one distracted by the chaos around him, and had accidentally misjudged the dosage. Knowing Watson, it was the latter and he had taken his mistake to heart.

"You need not blame yourself for giving him too much morphine, Watson," I offered.

The short, bitter laugh he gave in response was not encouraging.

"None of us are perfect, you know, myself included. Accidents are bound to happen, especially in times of war."

Immediately Watson raised his head to stare at me, incredulous. At first I thought it was because he could not believe I had used so trite of a phrase. Then I became dimly aware that I had missed some vital point entirely.

"Certainly you are right that accidents happen," Watson said. Then, to my distress, he folded his arms in a most defensive posture and resumed looking out the window. Nevertheless, I caught the haunted look in his eyes. I remained silent, seeing him struggle for words. When he spoke again, low and flat, it chilled me to the core.

"But it was no accident, Holmes."

_I fear those of you who have read "On Afghanistan's Plains" have a distinct leg-up on understanding what Watson is talking about__ and so will not be as tortured by the cliffhanger (I hope__ For those of you who haven't read OAP, yes this is a shameless plug._


	12. Chapter 12

"But it was no accident, Holmes."

Watson did not look at me. He remained turned to the window, although his folded arms were pressed tightly against his chest, as though trying to offer the smallest target possible. His chest rose and fell with unusual speed, waiting for my response.

These I observed peripherally. For my part, I felt as though time had paused momentarily and resumed without taking me along. I was keenly aware of the most trivial things: the precise angle of the raindrops on the window; the rough, worn fibers of the seats; the terrible stillness of our compartment after Watson's confession. I could scarcely credit the implications of what I had just heard.

"It was not murder, either," I heard myself say. No matter the story behind it, I believed that implicitly. My Watson was not a murderer.

Once again, Watson spun to face me, anger and anguish etched on his face. "Holmes, _I killed him!_" he hissed. "Deliberately, intentionally, and not in self-defense! If that's not murder, what is?"

I withdrew, both physically and mentally. The anger surprised me. I did not know why Watson sought my condemnation but I would not offer it. With a calmness I did not feel, I slowly drew out my pipe, filled it, and lit it. "It was not murder," I repeated. Then, as Watson drew breath to retort, I spoke quickly. "As one who has made his livelihood from such matters, I believe I can recognize murder, even when others do not. Tell me why. Tell me why, Watson, and then I shall tell you my verdict."

He was still angry at my denial and I was glad of it. If he could stay angry he could not torture himself with guilt and grief. He put this fury to good use now, barreling into the sordid tale told in staccato sentences. "He was a fellow soldier, wounded, with broken ribs. He couldn't breathe. A rib had punctured one of his lungs. He was in pain but morphine would depress his breathing further. I told him this. He asked for the morphine anyway. And I gave him more than twice the standard dosage." The last sentence was whispered, the weight of it leaving him drained.

I forced myself to remain the objective reasoned. "You did so knowingly?"

"Yes." The word was clipped, stirring the last embers of anger.

"Why?"

Watson swallowed hard. "Because there was nothing else I could do for him but give him a painless death."

"He was dying?"

"Yes."

"He knew this?"

"Yes."

"So he chose death by morphine instead."

"No!" He leaned forward, gaze boring into me, willing me to understand. "Holmes, he asked me to relieve his pain. That is all. It was not his choice. Not once did he ask me to –" Watson faltered and I took advantage of his inability to speak.

"Allow me to clarify. He asked you to hasten his death."

Watson hesitated before muttering, "yes."

"Would he have died without the morphine?"

"Yes, but –"

"It was not murder, Watson. And unless you personally broke his ribs and poked one through his lung, I cannot see that you are responsible for his death at all."

"Damn it, Holmes!" Watson exploded, startling me with the ferocity of his outburst. "I swore an oath to preserve life, not to take it! I swore to 'neither give nor offer a deadly drug to anyone who asks for it' but I did!"

"And you cannot forgive yourself for it," I observed softly. It was all too terribly clear. Watson was too honorable and too empathetic for his own good. For as long as I have known him, he has been a man of his word, never making a promise lightly. He was also a man dedicated to healing. I could not imagine a worse dilemma for him, to be torn between duty and compassion.

"But consider, Watson," I continued, "consider the cost if you had withheld the morphine. What manner of death would he have endured? I am not an expert in such matters but I cannot believe it should be easy or quick. Nor do I believe you would be any less tormented if you had allowed him to die without doing something to alleviate his pain."

Watson gave a start and sank back in his seat. Whatever he had been expecting me to say, it was not that. He sat silently for a time while (I hoped) my words sunk in. "I did not have to give him twice the dosage," he said at last.

"No," I agreed gently, "but given the circumstances, I think you ought to take a more lenient view of your actions." At his skeptical look, I added, "Speaking from experience, forgiving one's self is far harder than forgiving another."

11

When we reached Baker Street after what was a silent cab ride from the train station, I touched lightly on several innocuous subjects and Watson seemed relieved to follow suit. We did not speak of the matter for several weeks, due much in part to a flurry of cases that came our way, including one matter of government so vital that it even drove my brother Mycroft from his usual rails (5). Indeed, the conversation had all but passed from my mind when I happened upon a particular postcard while organizing the mounds of papers that had accumulated during the recent cases.

The postcard's area for messages was blank and unimportant. The front of it, however, was of some interest. The picture was of an iron statue of a snarling lion, black and heavily muscled, frozen mid-stride on a rectangular plinth. I could not recall how the postcard had come into my possession, nor why I had kept it (6).

"That is a picture of the Maiwand Lion," Watson said, peering over my shoulder, able to do so as I was seated on the floor.

"The Maiwand Lion," I repeated. "A monument to the battle, I take it?"

"To the 66th Berkshires who were killed there and at Kandahar, actually. It was erected nine years ago in Reading."

Watson's familiarity with the monument surprised me but a little. "I take it you purchased this postcard when you were at its unveiling."

Watson perched on my chair so I did not have to crane my neck to look at him and smiled. "However did you know that?"

"The yellowing of the card would indicate its age to be about ten years. You have just told me it could be no more than nine years old; therefore, it came into your possession around the same time the monument was unveiled."

"It could have been a gift from an acquaintance who was there in '86," Watson pointed out.

I raised an eyebrow at him. "A statue dedicated to your old regiment, which was virtually obliterated during the same battle in which you were wounded, and you were not there at its unveiling? Really, Watson, you push credibility to its limits."

He merely laughed. "Oh, very well, Holmes. You are correct as usual."

I studied the picture more carefully. The base of the monument was rectangular and although it was hard to tell from the black and white reproduction, there appeared to be small plaques running up and down the sides. Undoubtedly the names of the doomed regiment. I wondered how many of those names Watson knew, how many flesh-and-blood men had known who were now memorialized in iron and stone. How many friends he had lost.

Abruptly I turned and thrust it at him. "I trust you would prefer to keep it yourself rather than lose it amongst the storm of my case notes."

Watson made no move to take it. "Keep it," he said simply. When I hesitated his smile grew kindly. "I am in earnest, Holmes. You may have it, if you wish. I have made my peace with it at last." He clapped a hand on my shoulder and moved from my chair to his desk, probably to write up his account of the recent cases. The postcard itself I placed gently on my chair, away from the mass of papers around me. I would indeed keep it. With a bit of luck, I should learn from it as well.

A week or so later I found Watson standing in front of my side of the bookshelf, silently reading the little cardboard placard next to a small, newly framed picture that sat on the highest shelf. I moved behind him quietly, rereading the inscription from the Maiwand Lion I had written on the placard:

_This monument commemorates the names and records the valour and devotion of XI (11) officers and CCCXVIII (318) non-commissioned officers and men of the LXVI (66th) Berkshire Regiment who gave their lives for their country at Girishk Maiwand and Kandahar during the Afghan Campaign MDCCCLXXIX (1878) - MDCCCLXXX (1880) History does not afford any grander or finer instance of gallentry and devotion to Queen and country than that displayed by the LXVI Regiment at the Battle of Maiwand on the XXVII (27th) July MDCCCLXX (1880) Despatch of General Primrose._

Beneath the inscription, I had included: _God rest the young British soldiers._

I must have alerted him to my presence inadvertantly for Watson turned abruptly, his expression unreadable, even for me. "Holmes . . ."

"I hope my choice in decorative arts will not be a hardship for you?" I asked, discomfort making my words sound more brusque than I intended. I only hoped he would see past it.

"Of course not, Holmes, but -- "

"Valor and devotion are noble traits, and ought to be honored in all forms," I interrupted. I offered him a quick, uncertain smile. Would Watson understand it was a small tribute to him? That I was acknowledging the trials he had faced and the fortitude he had shown both then and now? And that it was my own reminder of how fortunate I was to have him as a friend?

Watson looked back over his shoulder at the framed postcard with its placard. "I quite agree, Holmes" he said softly, smiling. Then, almost too low for me to hear, he added, "Thank you."

(5) Yup, that would be The Bruce-Partington Plans.

(6) Wikipedia-search "Maiwand Lion" and click on the first source link at the bottom of the page to see the postcard.

_Well, folks, that's the end of this ride! I hope you enjoyed the journey[s) as much as I did._


End file.
